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Hello all,
I've recently become unemployed and decided to pass some of my time writing these stories. "Love and Punishment in Arabia" comes in three parts, and the lengths of them will reveal the level of boredom I have to endure. I in no way intend to offend anyone by the content of this long story. If you happen to get offended, keep in mind that I'm a white American male who isn't completely familiar with other cultures, and that I may be blinded by the stereotypes surrounding cultures other than my own. In the end however, this is simply a story involving fetishes that we all have in common. Read it from beginning to end, and don't forget to critique my work. Thanks.

Love and Punishment in Arabia (Part 1)

Five years ago I was a pipe installer in the UAE. Most of the work I did was conducted in Bedouin communities that lacked running water, and it was my company’s job to bring it to them. After about a year of doing this work I befriended a young Arabic woman in one of the villages. We realized right away that I was the man of her dreams.
The local customs prevented us from “dating” as a young couple would in Western society, but the two of us secretly established a bond that soon couldn’t be kept secret anymore. Against the wishes of my employer and co-workers, I approached my girlfriend’s father, who was a village elder and a highly regarded religious leader. He was amazed at my boldness to ask his daughter’s hand in marriage. After all, I was an infidel in their eyes, and any Muslim in the community that married a unbeliever would certainly be banished. Little did I know, however, that the rural villages in the UAE were experiencing the same liberal changes as those of much larger cities like Dubai and Abu Dhabi. It was because of this, not to mention various other reasons, that the father told me yes! Some of the village elders murmured against his decision, but they soon accepted his grant.
Preparations for the wedding were soon underway. Time flew by so quickly that I now found myself standing next to my wife-to-be. She was dressed in her traditional Islamic apparel, covered from head to toe with the exception of her eyes. Deep down I was annoyed that she had to wear this degrading outfit for her wedding, but I did like the high heels that she covertly wore under her gown. It was her way in expressing a leap from one culture to another.
There was no “now kiss the bride” moment in this ceremony, but I finally got to hold her hand in public for the first time. We were husband and wife. Cheers and revelry followed us to our tent, though the most unfortunate circumstance occurred just as we were about to enter it. A strong gust of wind blew through the area; and it fluttered the bottom of my wife’s gown just enough where scores of people could see the high heels that she wore. Cries of shock and anger bellowed from the older people in the crowd. Many uttered “shame, shame!” as my wife and I quickly retreated into our tent. She began to cry as I closed the flap behind us.

Wife: “I’m sorry! I have offended you.”
Me: “No you didn’t. I like those shoes.”
Wife: “You don’t understand. I offended you in their eyes….Shh!”
Footsteps could be heard approaching the tent.
Wife: “It’s my father.”

The father stood outside the flap and asked my permission to come in. I looked at my wife, who, with a little nod of the head, beckoned to let him in. He walked in carrying a small box, from which he pulled out a two-foot long leather whip.

Father: “I forgot to give this to you before the ceremony. It’s the
kourbash that I’ve used on your wife since she was a teenager. Now it’s yours to use on her.”

He handed me this hideous implement, while staring menacingly at his daughter.

Father: “She is no longer under my abode. She is your wife now, so I can’t use it on her anymore. It is up to you to correct her for her foolishness.” He turned to his daughter.
“You dishonored me and your husband by wearing those abominable shoes!” He paused for a moment.
“You know what has to be done; the village podium awaits you.”

After he left the tent an eerie silence ensued until she finally broke the silence.

Wife: “Okay….this is going to be a very awkward moment for you,” she said with a half-hearted chuckle, “but my father was referring to my punishment for wearing these shoes. They are forbidden to be worn in this village, and you my dear must be the one who corrects me for this fault.”

She took the whip from my hand and slid the leather tail through her fingers.

Wife: “The punishment varies from village to village, but in ours, flogging is the rule. Men are commonly the recipients, though women also get it from time to time. Two weeks ago one of my best friends received 100 lashes for getting drunk. But now it’s my turn to be humiliated in front of the villagers….”

She sunk her head into my shoulder.

Me: “I can’t do this! Quick, my truck is parked not far from the village. We can make a break for it before they realize we’re gone.”
I was about to peer out the flap to see if anyone was around the tent, but she quickly stepped in my way.

Wife: “No, my dear! I know this might seem crazy to you, but punishment is the only honorable way out for the two of us. Yes, it’s not right in your American society, but if we run away I will never be able to return here for a visit. And then there’s my father….I love him so much and he loves me. I couldn’t imagine myself being the reason for tarnishing his honor.”

It took me a while to contemplate her mindset over this whole matter, but I began to understand the role of honor in her society. I grudgingly accepted her wishes.

Me: “Very well….But I do have a problem with one thing. I don’t like the idea of you stripping down to your waist in front of everyone.”

My concern seemed to amuse her, as was evident by her quick burst of laughter.

Wife: “You still have a lot to learn about my culture, sir. As you already know, women cannot reveal any portion of their upper bodies in public, even during corporal punishment.”

Me: “Okay, I’m following you.”

She walked over to the tent flap and raised it. We both peered out and saw a couple of men setting up a chair and stockade on the village podium about seventy meters away. The stocks were a dead giveaway to how my wife had to be punished. She calmly looked up at me.

Wife: “I think you know now; you have to whip my feet. It’s at a time like this that I wish I was a man, because my back could handle a flogging a lot better.” She thrust the kourbash into my chest. “My father used this a number of times on my feet, but my feet never got used to it.”

Me: “I promise to restrain myself.”

Wife: “No, you can’t! I must learn a lesson here. Your strokes must be given without mercy; and you must make me scream…..”

She lowered her head and gazed solemnly at her neatly pedicured toes. My gaze naturally followed. She still had her heels on, and I felt it was best to have her take them off and put on a more appropriate pair of shoes before heading to the village square.
I had her sit down on the bed. After rummaging around the tent for a few seconds I found a pair that she deemed socially acceptable: a pair of flats. She already removed her high heels by the time I reached her, and she rose each foot up so that I could put the pair of flats on. I have to admit that the sight of her soles was stimulating, and I felt my dick bulge inside my pants. She gave a naughty little smirk when I held one for a closer look. I gave a quick tickle to her arch, and was delighted by the giggle that followed. My foot fetish secret was out.

Wife: “After all of this over they will need a good rub.”

We sat there for a few minutes feeling light-hearted until the villagers in the square began to chant my wife’s name. The podium was ready. I peered out the tent flap and saw at least two hundred villagers assembled in a circle around the stockade. My wife and I glanced at each other, and without a word spoken, she slowly rose to her feet. We exited the tent.
I led the way as we walked up a concrete pathway towards the village square. Our footsteps were soon drowned out by the chants of the crowd as we drew nearer. Upon our arrival the crowd split to make a path for us to the podium, and there we now were, standing at the foot of the stairs. My wife, with a veil over her head, looked up to the chair and stockade that awaited her. After a brief hesitation she walked up on her own accord and sat down on the chair. We were the only ones on the podium, and all eyes stared intently as I opened the stockade. My wife pulled up her gown just enough to expose her lower legs and laid her ankles on the sockets. I then closed the stockade, locking it shut. I removed the flats from her feet and placed them down on the floor, and my wife made the effort to make sure she couldn’t move her ankles. Her bare soles were now exposed to the crowd.
A man stepped forward from the throng of people with a sheet of paper in his hands. I quickly recognized it to be my wife’s father, and the sheet of paper he held was the punishment sentence. He pronounced in a loud voice:

“We the Elders, after confirming and corroborating the eyewitness accounts, have found this woman guilty of wearing illegal foot attire, namely, high heels, within the boundaries of this village. She is also charged with defaming the character of a village elder, namely, her father. Said elder has elected to pursue this additional charge, which also carries a guilty verdict. Regarding the first charge, she is hereby sentenced to receive seventy lashes on the soles of her bare feet. For the second charge she is hereby sentenced to receive forty lashes on the soles of her bare feet. The first charge’s sentence will be implemented today, and the second charge’s sentence must be carried out within six months of today.”

The crowd murmured at the sentence. Some felt the judgement to be too harsh, while others felt that the second charge’s sentence was too lenient. I saw my wife’s toes cringe at the numbers mentioned, but I remembered her pleas for me to show no mercy. I wasn’t going to disappoint her. We made eye contact one last time before she lowered her head, and she awed me and the crowd by arching her feet in a most vulnerable position. Her father gave me a quick nod; it was time for the flogging to begin.
I turned off all sense of humanity in me as I positioned myself in front of my wife’s feet and raised the whip high above my head. Her feet were tied together, so I didn’t have to deliver individual strokes to each foot. I quickly made up my mind on where to land the first stroke and brought the whip whizzing down with brutal force against the middle of her arches.
Whaaackkk!!!!!! The smack could be heard across the entire courtyard, but my wife’s barely audible moan was hardly comparable. Her feet didn’t even flinch in reaction, and remained in their arched position. I marveled at how she took it like a trooper. The second stroke landed on the same spot, and was followed by another loud whack. I felt like I didn’t swing any harder, though I probably couldn’t, but this time my wife’s reaction was more of what I was expecting. She let out a grunt as her feet and ankles fought the restraint. Her pain threshold was almost reached. Stroke number three finally broke her spirit as the whip landed on the toes. This time she let out a hideous scream. Screams followed every stroke now as the whip began to sensitize her soles. She fought against the stockade and her chair, but she quickly remembered the importance of submission in this circumstance and steadied her poise. Her soles were exposed to me and at my complete mercy, of which I now had none. Stroke after stroke followed. The air was filled with whacks and screams. But unfortunately for my wife, she remained conscious through the entire ordeal.
The final lash was finally delivered, nearly twenty minutes after the first. My wife was in extreme agony, which was evident by her clenched fists and persistent crying. Her feet shook out of control, and were bruised beyond belief with whip marks and traces of blood from toes to heels. I stood by as the father had two servant girls help my wife get into a stretcher, which was then used to bring her back to our tent.
She fell asleep shortly after arriving. A servant girl and I laid her face-down on the bed, and put a couple of pillows underneath her feet to keep them raised. After telling the servant girl to leave, I gingerly washed my wife’s feet, which weren’t a pretty sight, and wrapped them in bandages. The process awakened her, which I didn’t realize until she began to moan from the pain. I finished what I was doing and went to lie down next to her. We gazed into each other’s eyes for the first time since before the first whip stroke, and she surprised me with the most gorgeous smile.

Me: “How so?”
Wife: “I really thought your hand was going to be too light on me. But after the first few strokes I knew it was going to be a terrible experience; and I thank you for that. You taught me a good lesson today, a lesson that will make me think twice about dishonoring you in the future.”

Me: “The way I see it, the sooner we get out of here the better.”

Wife: “Of course! That will happen in due time, but I obviously can’t walk right now.”

Me: “How long will it take for your feet to return to normal?”

Wife: “I’ll walk again in four weeks, but it’ll take another eight or so months for the welts and bruises to go away. And let’s not forget I have a second flogging to go through within the next six months.”

Me: “Oh yeah, I nearly forgot. Damn, I was hoping we could leave here for the U.S. next month, perhaps we shouldn’t now. When were you planning on going through with it?”

Wife: “You’re my husband, that’s up to you. I have no say in such matters here. However, the village doctor also has a say, because my feet have to be deemed strong enough to take a beating. Realistically, it’ll probably be a couple of months before I can sit on that podium again.”

Me: “This is a tough choice, but I feel we have no alternative other than to fly back to America next month. I have obligations to meet for my employer over there. And if it was up to me, we wouldn’t come back here.”

She shot me a glance like she did earlier in the day when I wanted to flee the village. She put her hand on my arm.

Wife: “You know me better than that. I must come back here for the second flogging. Besides, it’s only forty lashes. Even if it was two-hundred I would come back.”

Me: “That’s true, but you have to think about the long-term condition of your feet.”

Wife: “Oh bother! If I wasn’t screaming my head off earlier I would have requested the second punishment to be added on right then and there, and we wouldn’t be arguing about this now.”

By this point I just had to chuckle at her enthusiasm for such a morbid subject.

Me: “Alright, you win. Just remember, not a word about this is to be mentioned back in America. Understand me?”